


Faith and Hellfire

by Inquestorm



Category: Warhammer - All Media Types, Warhammer 40.000
Genre: Corruption, F/F, Mystery, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2020-02-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:53:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22867426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inquestorm/pseuds/Inquestorm
Summary: "The absence of faith is the mark of the weak. The absence of faith is the mark of the heretic. The absence of faith is the mark of damnation."When a group of Battle Sisters are condemned for refusing to carry out a suicide mission, they are given a choice; take the oath of repentance, or join a kill-team being assembled by the mysterious Inquisitor Gharr. For Katarina Tzarine and her followers, it is no choice at all. But Gharr's mission leads them to a nightmarish world where nothing can be trusted, and all will be tested to the limit. With survival and their very souls on the line, Tzarine must ask herself what really matters...
Comments: 3
Kudos: 20





	1. Prologue: The Herald of Ash

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Faith and Hellfire](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/561994) by Basilisk9466. 



> Many, many years ago, when my original fiction was running into serious writer's block, I decided to throw out some silliness about a group of Battle Sisters turning to Chaos. Very rapidly it evolved into something a lot more thoughtful and intense, and although the original saga ended up being abandoned, the characters within have stuck with me since.
> 
> Some time (and a name change) on from that project, I've been returning to the 40k fold, and it feels time to revisit and reboot Faith and Hellfire, with a little more nuance and a lot more planning. If by chance you read the original, welcome; you'll recognise characters, but this is a fresh plot. If you're new, I hope you'll enjoy the journey as our cast of renegades struggles to survive in a universe that keenly desires to kill them.

_ To die without purpose is not a service. _

“No! Enough! I will never concede, daemon! I will never submit!”

The voice was weak, shaking, but there was still a thread of steel in it. The steel of faith, unbreakable and pure. It remained even as the woman shrieked in agony, convulsing as the cruel whip descended again on her back. The torn flesh and dripping blood not quite able to conceal the tattoo of the eagle across her shoulderblades, just as the bruises on her face did not hide the fleur-de-lys on her cheek.

The daemonette twirled the lash in its claws, sadistic glee in its eyes, but the warp creature paused, sulkily lowering the weapon at a gesture from the  _ true _ power in the room. The pale woman who might have seemed human, if it were not for the sharp teeth and dark eyes, whose mere presence was enough to make the skin crawl and the mind wander.

“No,” the daemon princess said. Her tone seemed almost sad, her touch almost gentle, as she cupped the Battle Sister’s chin, gazed into her eyes. “You won’t, will you? You’re too lost.”

Somehow the Sororitas found the strength to tug on the chains suspending her from the ceiling of the cell, jerking away from the clawed fingers. “Don’t touch me!”

“I can taste your fear,” her captor said softly. “Your soul clings to its faith in that shadow on Terra, but your body… your body and mind have little left to give. I could keep pushing. Leave you to the tender mercies of my followers. When they’re done, you’d be a crazed, tainted little monster, and you know it. It wouldn’t take much more to shatter you, remake you into a toy in service to the warp. And you know it. You’ve seen enough good men and women captured by Chaos and subject to such a fate. Eventually your soul would rebel, and you’d find a way to end your personal hell, but in the meantime… imagine what I could make you do?”

The scream in response was quite eloquent despite its lack of words. Hatred, rage, fear, pain… and the earnest wish for death.

The daemon smiled, grasping the woman by the hair. “It’s ok, little one. We’re not all without mercy. I release you from your suffering.”

There was a hiss of displaced air, and the damp crunch of flesh and bone being parted as the sword cleaved through her neck. For a moment, the Sororitas looked confused, but as numbness set in and the darkness took her, the expression became relief.

“Shall I dispose of the body, mistress?” the daemonette rasped. If it felt disappointment at its toy being taken away, it managed to conceal it.

Llthaanhir the Unmourned stirred from her thoughts, and lightly threw the severed head to the underling. “Clean that and add it to the collection. The rest, do what you wish.”

Calmly she sheathed the sword, and then reached out, touching the strands of the warp. Seeking the twists of fate. Oh, the servants of Tzeentch might own them, but anybody could read the portents with a little practice, and she could almost taste the thread of destiny. Something big would happen, and soon.

Her dark eyes opened again, turning to address one of her followers. “Set course for the Pharolyne system. And prepare for war. There are souls to harvest.”


	2. Failure

_ Survival is no birthright, but a prize wrested from an uncaring galaxy by forgotten heroes. _

Fist-sized holes exploded in the wall, and instinct made Palatine Katarina Tzarine flinch back as the bolter fire continued to tear into her cover - or what was left of it. This section of the city was already abandoned and falling apart, and the fighting was only accelerating the process.

“How many?” she snarled, fingers flexing on the growling chainsword in her hand. Aching to bury it in her assailants, but… not yet. Too much fire.

“I count five,” came the crisp reply over her vox. She caught a flash of movement from the upper floors of a nearby ruined building. Morgana, her oldest friend and comrade-in-arms. Trust her to find the optimal position to view the battlefield from. “All armed with bolters. I’m sure there’s a sixth nearby, but I don’t have eyes.”

Six traitor Astartes advancing on her position. More ferrocrete splinters sprayed over her as another volley of explosive rounds impacted. “I seem to have annoyed them,” Tzarine said dryly. “I’m pinned down. Any luck on contacting the other squads?”

“I’m afraid not, Palatine,” said the other woman sharing her cover. Rhia flexed her fingers on her power sword, equally frustrated by their forced stillness. Prized duellist or not, that many marines was suicide to attack head on. “The whole city must be jammed. We’re on our own.”

“I can give you cover from here,” Morgana said. “They haven’t spotted me yet. But we need backup.”

“There’s a warehouse to your east,” came the voice of Zophia, the leader of Tzarine’s Celestians. “It’s a good defensible position. I’ll meet you there.”

“I see it. Morgana, light them up,” Tzarine ordered, bracing herself. A moment later, the gushing roar of a flamer sounded, and the rain of bolter fire ceased. “Go!”

She caught a brief glimpse of five towering figures in dirty red armour, scrambling to escape the promethium-fuelled death engulfing them. Their defiled power armour would likely keep them alive, but it was an opening to escape to another position, one she eagerly took, sending a volley of bolter shells towards the Word Bearers as she ran for the next building. It was with no small satisfaction that she saw one of the traitor’s spiked helmets snap back from the impact.

Rhia was only a step behind her as they made it into the burned-out warehouse, reloading her bolt pistol. “I think you got one.”

“Confirm, one Astartes down,” Morgana agreed, her voice a little strained. “Taking fire, moving to a new position.”

“We’re right below you, Morgana, get to the ground floor,” Tzarine ordered. “We’ll get them in a crossfire when they try to breach.”

“Copy. Moving.”

It was a moment of respite, and Tzarine glanced around the rotting containers and abandoned equipment. Her chest tightening slightly at the sight of a bloody, ruined set of power armour. So this was where Helena had fallen. She’d hoped that the woman might have survived, but the splintered ruin of her chest where bolter shells had punched through told her all she needed to know. With Sarrusa’s ugly death to a chainaxe at the start of the battle… that meant that there were only four of them left. Plus whatever other squads remained in the city, fighting their own battles against the renegades.

There was just too much jamming to know more. Quietly she prayed that when this was over, she would have only a few souls to mourn.

There was a moment of relief as Zophia emerged from the debris, joining the two of them and aiming her bolter at the entryway. She looked to have taken some hits, but was still able to fight.

“Zophia, Rhia,” she hissed. “Grenades.” She pulled a krak grenade from her belt, watching the entrance like a hawk. The walls here were thick enough that bolter rounds wouldn’t penetrate, which meant that there was just the one way in. How would the monsters approach? Stun grenades? Her autosenses should filter out the worst of that. Berserk charge? With a little luck they could kill some as they funnelled through the entrance. What was she missing?

A momentary shiver ran down the Palatine’s spine as a savage, howling war cry started outside. Blasphemous incantations, prayers to the dark gods, roars of animalistic bloodlust and hate. Then the thunder of a power armoured charge.

Apparently she wasn’t missing anything. They were just that crazed and savage that they didn’t care about the tactically disadvantageous position. With a press of her thumb, she primed the grenade, and then hurled it as the first titanic silhouette appeared in the entryway.

The anti-vehicle charge detonated, and the shaped charge earthed straight into the marine’s chestplate, instantly liquidising his innards. He fell, still gargling prayers to Khorne. The second Word Bearer, slowed by having to clamber over the dying form of his brother, took Rhia’s grenade to the arm, and the weapon vaporised the elbow, making him drop his bolter in shock. Zophia’s grenade went wide and exploded harmlessly.

But it was only a momentary victory, and then Tzarine was raising her chainsword to block the frenzied attack of the third Astartes, the huge chainaxe still drenched in Sarrusa’s blood. There was a shriek of monomolecular teeth on metal grip as she parried, and drove a strike of her own that shredded into the tough ceramite plating, but failed to do lasting harm. Another wild swing forced her to disengage and leap backwards, out of reach.

Block, parry, strike, dodge; decades of training made it all instinctive, but it still pushed her abilities to the limit. He was just too fast, too strong. One good hit and she’d likely be down and out. It was a thought that gave her strength, though. Fear and hate made for potent fuel, fuel which powered her determination to  _ end _ this monstrosity that had taken so many lives, killed her companions and defiled this world by his mere existence.

The rhythm of frenzied melee combat was interrupted, though, by the shriek of superheated air. The marine froze mid-swing, and slowly crumpled to the ground. A glowing hole bored through the backpack power unit and straight into his chest. Tzarine drove her chainsword through his skull for good measure, and looked up at her saviour. “I should’ve known you’d survive this,” she said.

The figure of Helga, Seraphim wings ignited and raising her above the battlefield, her inferno pistols smoking, was a welcome one. Lightly she touched down, contemptuously kicked the corpse of another traitor. “Survive? Palatine, you know that I  _ thrive _ on the battlefield. You’re welcome, by the way.”

Zophia stalked over to join them, reloading her bolter. “You,” she remarked to Helga with mild distaste. Behind her, Rhia finished ripping her power sword out of the last chaos marine just as Morgana dropped from the walkway overhead.

“Me,” Helga agreed. “Three Word Bearers, two troop transports and about twenty three insurgents is my count. What’s yours?”

“What’s the battle look like from the skies?” Tzarine interrupted. She didn’t have time for Helga’s particular brand of psychopathic bloodlust or competitiveness. “I’ve been cut off since the initial assault.”

To her credit, the Seraphim became serious fast. “Not good. My squad split up when the lines went down so that we could play messenger. Last I saw, most of the mission has been forced back to fortified positions. The heretics are taking massive casualties, but they have the men to spare. I don’t see a way to reach their headquarters, not without taking significant losses ourselves.”

Tzarine fell silent. That had been their mission; a surgical strike on the insurgent HQ to kill the turncoat governor of the planet. Decapitating the snake and leaving enough confusion for the PDF to finish the job.

But nobody had counted on chaos space marines. Or city-wide jamming that blocked transmissions beyond a few dozen metres.

She could feel the eyes of her comrades upon her. Looking for leadership. But… what did she have to offer?

“We need to reconnect with the rest of the mission,” she said. “Helga, lead the way. We’ll reassess and redeploy from there.”

“On it,” the Seraphim said. “I’ve still got plenty of fuel. I’ll check for other threats in the area.” She turned and swooped away.

“What about Helena and Sarussa?” Rhia asked. Clearly uncomfortable with the idea of just leaving their fallen comrades.

Tzarine checked her weapons, glanced over her battered and depleted squad. “They’d slow us down,” she said reluctantly. “Everyone ready? Let’s move.”

***

She didn’t know the name of the city, Tzarine suddenly realised. Or the planet.

As she carefully advanced, her autosenses primed for any sign of threat or ambush, her squad spread out and flitting from cover to cover while the Seraphim hopped from roof to roof above them… it was a realisation that kept nagging at her.

Oh, it had come up in the briefings. She was a Palatine of the Order of the Bloody Rose, a position of honour and responsibility, a reflection of her experience and talent on the field of battle. She had contributed to the planning of the war, to the setup of this mission. She’d taken it upon herself to lead the strike personally.

But she couldn’t remember the name. The place that had claimed the lives of Helena, Sarussa and Emperor knew how many others. It all blended together.

It was just… another bloody conflict. Another war of heresy and blasphemy, created by traitors and fools rejecting the light of the Emperor, and condemning a world to violence and destruction. No matter who won, this world would be torn apart in fire and shell. The fields would be stained with the blood of the heretical and the true alike.

The way that Helga treated it as a game, a scoreboard, might strike her as trivialising the war. But could Tzarine really blame her? The Seraphim had always been a little… off, but she was a peerless soldier, always ready for the next battle.

Was she?

She shook herself. Suddenly disturbed at her thoughts. She was a Sister of Battle. The chosen implement of the Emperor’s wrath. It was something she’d dreamed of. Most Sororitas were orphans, but not her; she’d been inspired as a child, seeing a parade. Watching these proud, noble, terrible warriors marching, celebrating some victory or other, she’d known what she had wanted. And as a daughter of a noble family… it hadn’t taken much to have her entered into a Schola known for producing Sororitas novices.

She had been a mere child, perhaps not really understanding what she was sacrificing. But she had given it up nonetheless, to become what she was now. A holy warrior, with faith in her heart and fury in her soul.

“Are you all right, Katarina?”

Tzarine stirred, realising that Morgana was speaking to her on a private vox line. Nobody else to overhear.

“I’m fine,” she replied. “Something wrong?”

“You’re distracted. We’re in a warzone,” Morgana said. A gentle reminder rather than a rebuke. “This isn’t like you.”

Tzarine grimaced slightly. Sometimes there were downsides to being constant companions with someone for over twenty years. It was hard to conceal things. “What’s the name of this planet, Morgana?”

“Senaav,” Morgana replied promptly.

Of course the woman knew. Tzarine could remember when they were in the Schola, and Morgana had been putting them all to shame with her knowledge. It had generally been expected that she would join the Famulous or Dialogus, but… she’d insisted on picking up a bolter and going with Tzarine into the Militant. She still had a mind like a steel trap.

“Thank you,” she said. Saying nothing more. Let her friend think what she would. This wasn’t the time for a heart-to-heart.

“You’d have remembered once upon a time,” Morgana pushed. “Maybe you need to stop. Ask the Canoness for a sabbatical, return to Ophelia VII, find yourself again.”

“Not now, Morgana,” Tzarine growled. Silence fell.

Maybe the woman was right, though. Maybe she was just… stretched thin. Any weapon needed maintenance and care. Warriors were the same. A chance to reflect, to find her strength once more.

Her autosenses flared abruptly, picking up distant gunfire. “Helga?”

The Seraphim paused, surveying the scene. “I see it. Heretic force attacking the fallback zone everyone retreated to. Just more PDF, I don’t see any Astartes. About half a kilometre.”

“Go ahead and support them. We’ll catch up.” Tzarine broke into a run as the Seraphim vanished onwards obediently.

Yes. In moments like this… she could definitely understand Helga. When the roar of battle started… you didn’t have to think. You could just act. Allow instinct and rage to take over.

***

It was a massacre. Half-trained cultists with lasguns and mothballed vehicles against the wrath of the Adepta Sororitas.

But there had been only a handful. A scouting force. As Tzarine stepped away from the remains of the heretic assault, stepping into the old church that her forces had retreated to, she knew in her heart that this had just been the start. Now that the enemy knew where they were… they would return in force. Perhaps with more Astartes.

This was supposed to be a surgical strike. A plunging thunderbolt into the heart of traitorous lines. Now, as she called for reports and heard stories of entrenched positions, siege guns, chaos marines and tanks… she knew that it was futile. She’d come here with sixty Battle Sisters, and a third of them were dead already. Cut down in ambushes, running against positions far stronger than anticipated, unable to reinforce each other.

She could feel how low morale was. She could raise it, she knew. They were grieving for their lost comrades, the fight knocked out of them by the forced retreat. That pain could be changed to fury, the loss to hate. Their faith reignited and turned into a burning sword that could tear through anything that the Word Bearers and their lackeys put forward. She’d seen it before. Both as the inspired and the inspirer. It was what made the Sororitas so feared. Defeat only made them fight harder.

And yet.

She could do it, she knew. With what she had left over, and the intel they’d gathered in the disastrous initial attack, she could lead a strike that would punch through those lines and reach the HQ. Execute the governor and his staff, kill the heretic leaders.

But it was a suicide mission. None of them would get out alive.

There were better ways to win this war. Ways that wouldn’t condemn forty more brave, heroic women to death.

“We’re pulling out,” she said. “We should have enough vehicles to evacuate the mission back to Imperial lines.”

There was a shocked silence.

“I will not needlessly spend lives on a mission better solved by saturation bombardment. Gather our dead and move out.”

“You want us to  _ retreat _ ?” came an angry bark. Tzarine turned to face Zophia, the Celestian Superior’s fury radiant. “We were given a direct order to exterminate the leaders of this insurgency, Palatine! We still have the forces to do it! If our lives are the price for carrying out His will, then it is a price we gladly pay!”

“Those are my orders, Celestian!” Tzarine snarled. “Lives are the Emperor’s currency, spend it well - or have you forgotten that aphorism? When the time comes to die for Emperor and Imperium, I will do so gladly, but not for a pointless cause!”

“Pointless? You call the destruction of heretics and traitors pointless?” Zophia snarled.

“Twisting words is the domain of the Enemy, Zophia, you’re better than that,” the Palatine shot back. “If you wish to remain here, I won’t stop you. Everyone else, you have your orders.”

The air simmered with tension as the two women stared each other down. Even through helmets, there was a sense that anyone who got between them would have been incinerated.

Zophia looked away. “By your will, Palatine,” she said through gritted teeth. “But this isn’t over.” She turned and stormed off. As though the spell was broken, the Sororitas set about pulling out.

A gauntleted hand touched Tzarine’s arm, and she jerked before realising the owner. “She won’t forget this,” Morgana said privately. “I’ll stand by you as always, Katarina, you know I will. But this will have consequences.”

The Palatine looked out towards the heart of the city, and then to the dead bodies being hauled away to the waiting transports. “I can live with that,” she replied quietly.


	3. Condemnation

_ A questioning mind betrays a treacherous soul. _

The chamber was a small one. A place for silent contemplation of one’s failings, ornately decorated with reliefs of great heroes and heroines, a mighty aquila looming over them all. A place to measure oneself against one’s forebears, and feel humbled.

Tzarine knelt before the great double-headed eagle. Head bowed, eyes closed.  _ Holy father, great Emperor… I did what I thought was right. To advance would have been a greater failure. You know that, don’t you? My courage, my faith never wavered… _

The Palatine gritted her teeth for a moment.  _ But try telling that to Zophia. Or Canoness Alvarine. This was war, holy father… there are no absolutes… why can’t they see that? Are they right? Have I really lost my way? _

Only silence answered her.

It had been a week since her withdrawal. She’d been relieved of command, and ordered to return to the starship  _ Unyielding Thunder _ to await judgement, and… consider her sins. A sentence that had left her climbing the walls without any knowledge of what was going on. Her friends, her comrades… had they been hurled back into the assault? Were they dead? Had something else happened? How was the war going?

There was a sick irony to the fact that it was a conflict she’d cared almost nothing for, until she was barred from it.

So… here she was again. Aside from being given leave to rest and see to her bodily needs in her chambers, this was where she was to remain until summoned. There was a priest who followed her around to ensure she did not stray. It was a very… civilised form of imprisonment, but imprisoned she was. Being denied her weapons and armour was also a deeply uncomfortable feeling. She’d been so attached, so connected to the blood-red plate and her sleek instruments of death ever since they’d been granted to her, to now be separated from them left her feeling naked despite the bodyglove.

Her mind was wandering again. She took a slow breath, tried to refocus on her prayers.

_ I gave myself to You, body and soul. All that I am, I surrendered. I have wielded blade and bolter with a song in my heart in Your name. I have never shied away from duty. Are You testing me? Is that it? _

_ All that I ask is that You watch over my sisters. Keep them from harm, if they are fighting without me. _

Tzarine opened her eyes again at the sound of the chamber’s door grinding open. Slowly she rose to her feet and turned around.

Zophia jerked her head imperiously. “Come with me. It’s time.”

Relief. Anything was surely better than being caged with only her thoughts for company. “May I ask what happened on the surface?” she asked, moving to follow as the Celestian turned away.

“You may not,” the other woman replied with a kind of flat spite. The fact that Tzarine wanted to know was evidently enough reason to deny her that information. “It’s none of your concern. Canoness Alvarine will hear your case.”

Tzarine was about to probe further when she saw something that made her stomach twist. Zophia’s power armour had been altered, an addition to the rose iconography on the shoulderpad, a spiked halo. A small thing, one that a layman might miss.

It marked the woman as a Palatine.

“You’ve been promoted,” Tzarine said. Trying to sound casual.

Zophia glanced over, a look that could only be described as hate in her eyes. “Your conduct made it clear that this mission needed a new leader. The Canoness initiated me a few hours ago.”

Katarina’s stomach knotted further. No. Surely not.

There were no demotions in the Adepta Sororitas.

The hallway branched out into a much larger chamber, the starship’s chapel. Tzarine felt a rush of mixed feelings upon seeing a number of familiar faces; the rest of her squad, along with Helga. At least they were unharmed.

But her attention was drawn to the battle-scarred woman before them; Canoness Alvarine, hero of Koreen Primaris, veteran of a thousand battlefields. Her immediate superior, and the one who had promoted her to the rank of Palatine. A hard woman with a temper like a meltagun and a combat record that would make a Space Marine blush. There were a lot of bright-eyed young women in the Order of the Bloody Rose who practically worshipped her.

Tzarine’s own starstruck attitude had somewhat waned as she’d grown older and more jaded.

Alvarine’s intense gaze fixed on her as she approached and knelt beside her comrades. “Canoness,” she said respectfully.

There was a hiss of parting air, and she flinched instinctively as a heavy blade flashed, coming to a stop in front of her, the tip inches from her chest. “Do you know what this is, Katarina?” Alvarine asked.

“Of course, Canoness,” Tzarine replied. “Your sword goes by many names, but ‘Witchbreaker’ was always my favourite.”

The relic blade crackled to life, the heat of the energy field washing over Tzarine briefly. The glowing golden circuitry set into the metal was almost hypnotic in its designs, each one telling its own story of the extermination of those who would wield witchcraft and sorcery.

“Yes, I recall your fondness of that title,” Alvarine said. “I thought that perhaps you might wield it yourself some day, when the Emperor took me into His embrace. But now I think that will never happen. I received Witchbreaker from my predecessor, Emperor preserve her, on the field of battle. That is the curse of this sword, Katarina. Everyone who wields it dies an ugly death, even by the standards of our Order. Yet I still wield it with pride.”

Tzarine caught on quickly. “Canoness, I have no problem with dying in His name. I simply -”

“You will be  _ silent _ ,” Alvarine snarled, and Tzarine flinched again, feeling the weight of the woman’s ire. Not Zophia’s incandescent fury, but a cold rage that was far more dangerous. “By withdrawing when you did, you enabled the heretics to solidify their hold on the city. By the time the last of them were exterminated, not only were an entire division of the planetary defence force dead, but the city was left in ruins. I am far from convinced that all the traitors are dead. Your cowardice has cost the Imperium dear.”

“We had the ships and artillery to wipe them off the map,” Tzarine replied, her temper rising despite her best efforts. “The cleansing fire of lance and earthshaker were the clearly superior option.”

“Far too much would have been lost. As it is, restoring this planet’s industrial capabilities will take decades of work, quite apart from the death toll. More than that, though, you  _ embarrassed _ me, Katarina!” Witchbreaker rose, the tip close enough under her chin that her skin began to heat painfully. “I trusted your judgement and capabilities, and I vouched for you to our allies. When you pulled out, I was left with the choice of supporting you or losing face - not for me, but for our entire Order. You nearly brought the Bloody Rose itself into disrepute and you disgraced the name of St Mina. Do you understand the depth of your sin now?”

Tzarine’s eyes flicked up. A bitter taste in her mouth. “I understand that you put more value in politics and ‘face’ than my tactical acumen and desire not to waste the lives of the Emperor’s faithful.”

_ Crack _ . She sprawled to the ground, cheek bruising and blood in her mouth, Zophia’s backhand still ringing in her ears. At least nothing felt broken. The power armoured gauntlet could have cracked her jaw if her former lieutenant had put some real force into the strike.

“Unrepentant as ever,” Alvarine snapped. “Have you ever had an inch of humility in you, Katarina? If you care nothing for yourself, show some care for those who follow you. These three women spoke up in your defence. They have their share of failures, but nothing of your magnitude. Accept your fate, take the oath. Absolve yourself of their loyalty.”

Tzarine pushed herself back to her knees, glancing at her companions. Morgana, Rhia and Helga. They’d risked their futures to support her?

Alvarine’s tone left her in no doubt that her own future was fixed. Whether she took the oath willingly, or it was forced upon her… she would become one of the Repentia. Stripped of armour and identity, left with nothing but pain, guilt and a chainsword, to fight until she was forgiven… or more likely until she died. If she accepted it… her comrades… her  _ friends _ might be spared.

Her skin crawled, and her gaze shifted back to Alvarine, a woman she’d once looked up to, with the purest hatred. There was only one reasonable choice, no matter how much horror it filled her with. She would do it, her courage would not fail her, but… she wouldn’t forget this, no matter what happened.

“No,” came a quiet voice. Morgana rose to her feet, before Tzarine could speak. “If  _ Palatine  _ Tzarine is guilty, then so am I. Punish us both if you must. My conscience is clear and my heart is pure.”

Helga stood as well, spat. “I know groxshit when I see it. I was out there, I saw their lines. I don’t think even Tzarine could’ve broken us through them. I’m with her.”

There was a brief, shocked pause, then Rhia joined them silently.

Tzarine pushed herself from the ground, wiped blood from her mouth. “You don’t have to do this,” she said. “There’s no need for us all to be condemned.”

“If this is what justice looks like, then feth that, and feth you, Canoness,” Helga snapped. “I won’t condone this scapegoating by wearing the red any more. Give me my eviscerator already.”

Morgana gave a half smile. “I might have said it with less swearing, but… I agree.”

Alvarine’s eyes glittered as she took in the scene, Zophia standing by her side and clearly unsure. But the Canoness was anything but, and she opened her mouth to give the order that would tear away their status as Battle Sisters, likely forever.

“Oh dear. This is… most unfortunate, is it not?” came a new voice from behind them.

Tzarine looked around, startled that anyone would dare to intrude on a space of the Adepta Sororitas, much less a man. But the surprise faded as she took in the figure.

He was tall and bizarrely spindly, like some kind of stick figure brought to life; an effect that the heavy grey trenchcoat did nothing to obscure. Some horrific head injury had demanded extensive bionic reconstruction, and a good half of his skull and one eye were bare metal, the latter glowing a soft blue. He walked with an ornate metal walking stick, and the bulge at his side suggested some kind of heavy pistol concealed there. Most of all, the ornate ‘I’ pinned to his chest told her all she needed to know.

“Inquisitor Gharr,” Alvarine said, her tone displaying faint irritation. “If you have business, then perhaps you can return later…”

“Mmm, no, I think my business is right here.” He smiled humourlessly. Or at least showed his teeth. “Four members of your order showing such insubordination and fire, dear me. Tell me, ladies, would you die for the Emperor?”

“Of course,” Tzarine said instantly, echoed by her companions.

“Mmm. With your permission, Canoness, I would like to offer… an alternative. Since they are so… unrepentant, in your words, and yet still so full of faith and righteous fire… I have a purpose for them, one that might suit them better than swinging a giant chainsword around, hmm?” A brief, humourless laugh.

“A purpose?” Alvarine probed.

“I need a kill-team. I already have a few recruits in place, but four such experienced and deadly warriors would be a fine addition. The mission is extremely dangerous, needless to say, and could well claim all of their lives.”

Alvarine was silent for a moment. Then she looked to Tzarine. “You were once a hero of the Bloody Rose and someone I saw fit to trust. In honour of that, you have the choice. The Repentia, or this… suicide mission for a nameless cause.”

Tzarine glanced between the Inquisitor and the Canoness. A terrible choice. And yet no choice at all.

No matter how bad this mission could be… she would get to fight it herself. On her terms. And if she died… well. The Imperium was built upon the bones of forgotten heroes. The Emperor would know of her deeds. That was what mattered. She would die Katarina Tzarine. Not one of the lost.

“I think I speak for all of us when I say… where to, Inquisitor?”

Gharr gave another broad yet somehow humourless smile. “Wonderful. I’ll see to it that your equipment is requisitioned and brought to my shuttle. We’ll be joining another starship and then leaving within the day.

“Understand that you are now dead to us, Katarina,” Alvarine said. “Whatever deeds you may claim, you are banished from the Order of the Bloody Rose.”

Tzarine looked back to her former commander, and spat. “To quote my comrade here… feth you, Canoness. Let’s go.”

Gharr’s dry laughter echoed as the four exiles left the chapel.


End file.
